


Tabernacle

by Pseudothyrum



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Everybody mistranslates for everybody else all the time, Gen, Gratuitous French, Gratuitous swearing in French
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-22 07:02:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3719587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pseudothyrum/pseuds/Pseudothyrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Translation problems can exist in all directions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tabernacle

They find the mark sitting in a booth at the very back of the bar. It’s early in the day so the place is nearly empty, but the guy is still nursing what appears to be a beer. He doesn’t look up as they approach the table, and seems willing to ignore them until they slide into the booth, Numbers beside him and Wrench across. He looks at them in a manner reminiscent of a caged animal, body tense and frightened, eyes shifting between the two of them with alarming rapidity. The guy is clearly resisting the urge to throw up, for which Numbers is infinitely grateful; these are new shoes. Numbers gives him a wide, insincere grin.

“Hello,” he says, “we hear you’ve been hanging out with a friend of ours, Jos Montferrand. Fargo sent us to have a little chat and find out what you know,”

“Je parle pas anglais,” the guy says, rushed and frantic, hands spread before him in submission. Numbers stares at him for a long time.

“What,” he looks over at Wrench, who is watching them both impassively. Numbers points at the guy and signs _French_. Both of Wrench’s eyebrows shoot up, and he begins to move his hands, but Numbers has already turned his focus back onto the quivering guy between them.

“Do you speak any English?” he enunciates carefully. The guy stares at him blankly.

“Quoi?” The guy’s eyes are wide and afraid and Numbers sighs.

“English,” he says, a little louder, as though he’ll hit just the right volume and suddenly transcend all language barriers, “do you speak English, or are we going to have to start asking you the way to the library in really loud voices?”

“Q-quoi?” The guy says, beads of sweat springing up on his forehead. Numbers turns at the sight of Wrench waving his hands in his peripheral vision. Wrench gestures at his notebook, then turns it so that the pages are facing the guy. The guy’s eyes skitter nervously across the page, and when he looks back up at Wrench his eyes are filled with a sudden hope. A torrent of words spill from his lips, much too fast for Numbers to catch any of them. Wrench scribbles something in his book and the guy stops speaking, then resumes, much slower.

“S’il vous plait, je tire le diable par la queue. Jos a dit qu’il me trouver un emploi, j’ai dû voler quelque chose de les hommes des Fargo qui lui doivent de l’argent, c’est tout!” Wrench nods, then turns quickly to Numbers.

 _Jos offered him money to steal something from Fargo_. Numbers doesn’t even bother to ask how this is happening.

 _Ask him if he knows where Jos is now_.

Wrench writes quickly then shows it to the guy, who shrugs.

“J’suis foutu si j’sais,”

 _He doesn’t know_.

 _Ask him if he can get in touch with Jos_.

“Si vous avez l’argent, je peux,” he grins wanly, trying a little too hard to pretend like he’s not moments away from pissing himself

 _He wants money_. Numbers scowls at the guy, who instantly stops smiling.

 _Tell him we’ll break all his fingers instead_. The guy grows paler as the message is relayed, but his posture and tone of voice suggest a grim fatalism that Numbers is irritated to know all too well.

“Ton chum est trés écœurant,” the guy spits acidly, and the tips of Wrench’s ears turn red as he scribbles hastily in the book. The guy scoffs at whatever he’s written, but keeps silent.

 _What did he say?_ Numbers asks, a little concerned.

 _Nothing. He said he’s not scared of us_. Numbers rolls his eyes.

 _Tell him if he tells us we promise not to kill him_.

“Osti de calice de pourris sales!” the guy hisses, “Si vous ne le faites pas, il sera. Je sais pas!”

_He still doesn’t know. He says Jos will kill him._

_Tell him if he’s a good boy and tells us we’ll buy him an ice cream._

“Criss de calice de tabernac d’osti de sacrament! Il va me tuer, et ma famille aussi! Osti de pédale de merde! Osti de tabernac de gros fif!” The guy is breathing heavily, eyes wide and wild.

 _He wants bubblegum flavour_. Numbers raises his eyebrows, but Wrench just grins at him. Numbers rolls his eyes.

 _Fine, tell him that if he doesn’t tell us we’ll make sure everybody in this town knows that he helped us. And then, when Jos comes looking for him, maybe he’ll be lucky and we’ll get to Jos before Jos gets to him._ This message takes a while to relay, but Numbers can see the exact moment that it hits the guy, because every ounce of fight goes out of him all at once. He spills every detail, Wrench taking careful note of Jos’ home address, his phone number, his plans for the evening, probably even his shoe size and inseam measurements.

“See,” Numbers says aloud when he’s done speaking, clapping the profusely sweating guy on the back with all the faux camaraderie he can muster, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?” The guy mutters something under his breath, but neither of them bother to try to catch it. They leave the guy, sweating and shaking, to the drink the rest of his beer in terrified silence. They have a man to see about a debt. As they slide into the car Numbers turns to look at his partner.

 _French?_ he asks, eyebrows raised.

 _Sometimes I get bored_ , Wrench replies, shrugging, then fixes his eyes on the road. Numbers isn’t sure he believes it but he lets it go for now, and settles in for the long, silent drive to find Jos Montferrand


End file.
